


That's for Thoughts

by Violsva



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Family Issues, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, WAdvent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 20:34:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5389334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson spends Christmas 1881 with his brother in Edinburgh. It’s the first time in nearly a year that he’s gone more than a day without seeing Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's for Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> For WAdvent 2015 at [Watson's Woes](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/).

It was not so surprising that Holmes – even Holmes – was not aware that I had a brother until we had lived together for years. I didn’t speak of him.

The first Christmas after I had returned from Afghanistan, I was too weak to travel, but it didn’t matter; Henry had not replied to the letter I had sent him when I arrived in England. I sent another in January, informing him of my change of address, and expected rather bitterly that he would pay no attention to that either.

I cannot say that my disdain for him was because of his flaws. Indeed, if it had only been his flaws, I might have had more sympathy. But our father’s death had left Henry well provided for, and me with little more than enough to finish my education. And Henry’s attitude to his inheritance had been calm acceptance, as if it was no more than his due as the eldest son, as he tossed it away on entertainment. It irked me, and it irked me more after my time in the Army gave me nothing but infirmity and a half-pension. It was neither sadness at his self-destruction nor moral disapproval that had further separated us; it was simple resentment.

But when he replied some months later, seeming by his handwriting to be having a spell of sobriety, I wrote back, and we kept up a civil correspondence until December, when he invited me to Edinburgh for the holiday.

I did not tell Holmes where I was going, but I went. Holmes rarely pried, probably because he thought he could find out everything more easily by himself, and we were not so close then that it was odd that I did not give him details.

I spent the train journey reading the newspaper three times and telling myself there was no reason to regret my decision.

Henry met me at the station, but not until the crowds had cleared up somewhat, for neither of us recognized the other at first. He was neatly dressed and looked nothing like a cartoon drunkard, but to a doctor the signs of long-term indulgence were clear. And my face, I knew, was already lined and worn with pain, and if a year of better health had not changed that likely nothing would.

“John!” he exclaimed, when I had started toward him, mostly certain it was he. “You look older than I am!”

It was not untrue. I shook his hand and smiled at him and said something polite.

He took my suitcase without asking, and I let him and followed him to the cab rank. “You’re talking like a Londoner, too,” he said. “Here, you!”

“I know, Granny would be horrified,” I agreed, as a driver tossed my belongings onto the back of his cab. I felt a little smug; Holmes had just the other day been teasing me about some minor alleged Scottish marker in my English.

“Ach, tha bluidy Sassenach,” said Henry, and I hoped this trip would not be so bad after all.

During the journey to Henry’s house I asked about his life, and his work at one of the larger Edinburgh banks. He seemed to be doing much better, at least according to his own account. By the time we arrived at the small townhouse we were talking almost as we might have five years earlier, before our father’s death.

“And now you,” said Henry, settling into an armchair. His house and furnishings were quite fine, by my admittedly low standards. The signs that it was a bachelor household were clear, but I was certainly in no place to judge over that. There was a full liquor cabinet in one corner, but I had never expected Henry to join the Temperance Movement. He called for before-dinner coffee rather than offering me anything stronger, and I didn’t comment on it. “You wrote that the Army wouldn’t take you back?”

I wished the years had taught Henry some tact. “No, my health is still too uncertain,” I said. “However, I am sharing rooms with someone, so I’m able to save some money towards buying a practice eventually.”

“As long as you’re still _in_ practice, eh?”

“In the spring I might start looking for work in a clinic or a hospital,” I said. “When I know if I’m recovered enough.”

“Hmm.” He nodded. Perhaps he had learned some tact, for the next thing he said was, “And are you still getting along with that fellow-lodger of yours? Holmes?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “He is brilliant. I told you that he’s a detective? His work has been picking up lately.”

“He doesn’t have an office outside your rooms, then? I suppose you see a lot of queer people.”

“Queer situations, more like. There was a case a month ago, with a young specialist.” I told him about Dr. Trevelyan’s resident patient, and Holmes’ investigation of the matter.

“You’re assisting in his work then,” said Henry.

“Well, I hope I am assisting.”

“Mmhmm. Well, it seems an interesting hobby, if you don’t get yourself shot by bank robbers in the process. Why didn’t he just join Scotland Yard?”

I considered the effect such a suggestion would have upon Holmes, and tried not to laugh. “He finds it easier to work outside of the constraints of the official forces,” I said.

“Bit odd,” said Henry. “Well, it’s suppertime, or ought to be. One minute.”

I realized, as he went to see how our meal was coming along, that I had been a little over enthusiastic about Holmes. Everyone else I met these days already knew of him – I had enjoyed the opportunity to explain him to someone who didn’t, but perhaps I was monopolizing the conversation.

Supper was familiarly Scottish, though Henry’s cook was not comparable to Mrs. Hudson. We talked of the differences between London and Edinburgh, and continued on neutral subjects over cigars afterwards.

Henry’s guest bedroom was comfortable enough, until I found myself awake in the small hours of the night, shaking and drenched in sweat. I had hoped that the dreams were fading – and perhaps they had been, as my bed at Baker Street grew more familiar. Here, that would do no good.

I couldn’t rise, as I sometimes did, and take myself to different surroundings. I didn’t know the house, and I’d knock into the furniture and startle someone, and they’d likely think I was a burglar. I lay awake, and then I lay unsure if I was awake or not.

Christmas Eve morning found me bleary-eyed and exhausted, and deeply disinclined towards breakfast table conversation. Henry at least understood such feelings, though from different causes. We walked around his neighbourhood that morning, swaddled in overcoats, and the cold air did me good.

“The museum at Surgeon’s Hall will likely be open,” said Henry, as we considered turning back home.

“I think I saw enough of it as a student,” I said. I wouldn’t mind going again normally, but my leg was beginning to act up and I knew Henry would be bored. So we returned through streets lined with grey stone. It was, I thought, much cleaner than London, and with less of the thick fog of industrialization. But in the last year I had seen much of London’s slums and dockyards, more than I had ever thought I would. I knew such places existed in Edinburgh, but there were no pressing investigations demanding that I follow Holmes to them.

I spent the afternoon writing in my journal. After dinner I asked Henry about his firm and he was happy enough to speak of business matters.

I found myself barely listening, however. I felt this was unfair, but I had never had much interest in financial affairs, and Henry didn’t seem very interested either. His tone only brightened when he mentioned excursions with his fellow tellers, but I didn’t really want to encourage him on that subject. It was good that he was enjoying himself, but I could only think of my days at University, when half of the time I saw him he had been drunk, and the rest hungover.

It had only been a day, and I already felt as if we had exhausted all we had to say to each other.

Christmas dawned as disappointingly rainy as it had been most years of my childhood, but now the rain felt at least familiar, and I was better-slept and thus cheerier than I had been the day before. This mood lasted through breakfast. But all the time I felt a little as if something was missing.

After breakfast Henry and I exchanged presents. I realized suddenly just before that it was entirely possible that we’d both bought the other the same thing, but luckily he had given me a set of cuff-links, and he received the silk cravat I gave him with some pleasure.

I knew by then what was missing, though. Henry and I made polite conversation about shopping in London, and I tried not to glance to my left, where Holmes’ armchair should be. I could imagine his comments, his occasional sarcastic raised eyebrow, his infrequent smiles. I tried to refocus my mind on my brother.

The – homesickness, I suppose it was – did not lessen over the day, however. After lunch we separated, and I pretended to read and kept wishing I could simply look up and see Holmes’ face. In the past two days I had almost been keeping a list of things I wanted to mention to him, though most were far too trivial to bring up days later. I kept wanting to _talk_ to him, that was all. And there was no point even in writing a letter when I would arrive a day after it did.

I did not even know where he was this Christmas. I had been as vague as possible about my plans, not wanting to describe my relationship with my brother to the most observant man in London, and he had been vague in return. I knew Mrs. Hudson was taking a few days off, and he had mentioned that he did have plans, but not what they were. I did not know if he had any family in London, or at all. I assumed not – he seemed so utterly cut off from human relationships of any kind, except perhaps our growing friendship, if I could call it that. But I did not know.

Perhaps he had a large extended family, I speculated, smiling to myself. A family he saw at holidays only, when he sat uncomfortably at the table, avoiding the children and deducing what was happening in his relatives’ lives before they could tell him. Except, I remembered, that Holmes actually quite liked children – or street urchins, at least. It always seemed so uncharacteristic.

But what did I know what was characteristic for him, I thought bitterly. I’d known the man less than a year, and we did not even know some of the most basic matters of each other’s lives. I should not be so obsessed with him.

I missed him, though, badly. There was no hiding that from myself. And it had only been two days.

I leaned back in my chair. All afternoon to go, and then tomorrow, before I left. I wasn’t staying for Hogmanay. I assumed Henry would have plans with friends, and did not speculate on what they were. He was improved, anyway – I had at least seen proof of that.

Anything would be an improvement, really. I hadn’t minded his drinking in University – had been too occupied with my own concerns. I could only see now the pattern of it, growing worse after our father’s death. I had been too worried about Mother’s illness, and my own prospects, to see how Henry was treating his inheritance.

When he hadn’t come to see me off to India I had been hurt, but Mother had made his excuses. I wondered now if that too had been because of drink.

I wouldn’t have known of her death until I returned to England if I hadn’t caught sight of it in a newspaper. He hadn’t written. The bitterness I thought I had left behind raged back up, but there was no purpose in taking him to task for it now. I barely saw him anyway – I didn’t need to make him apologize, or more likely get into a fight with him. I would go home, to London, to my own life, and Henry would just be a letter every month or so again.

Now, it had been two years since our mother died, and Henry was improved. Now, he was doing nothing wrong, was taking care of himself and his finances – far better than I was, in fact – was healthy and not sunk in drink or the other vices he had favoured. The best way to encourage that was by acting as brothers again, as he clearly wished me too.

Less than two more days of being polite, I thought, and then I could leave.

We walked through Edinburgh again on Boxing Day, and talked about the same things we had talked about the two days before, and I thought about what I might say to Holmes instead were he here. I was bored, and impatient, and careful not to show either of them.

I had nightmares again that night, and lay awake until the late winter dawn, when I got another half an hour of sleep before the maid came in. But I was leaving that day, I realized joyfully. I was not in much condition to feign regret at the breakfast-table, but the effects of my mostly-sleepless night likely helped.

I could not keep myself from smiling as I boarded the train back to London, though I kept my face turned so at least Henry would not see it. I settled in my seat, and felt as, perhaps, I should have felt on the way up – as if I was on my way to visit a favourite relative I had not seen in years.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fraternity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10780386) by [gowerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gowerstreet/pseuds/gowerstreet)




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